Mason looks up, his lip curling. “Oh yes, because denying myself and pretending I’m someone I’m not forever would be better, so I could end up bitter like you, lying to myself and everyone else about who I am.”
“At least I care more about my family than my own cock,” James spits back, pushing through the hurt that gathers in his chest. Is that really what the man thinks of him?
“How dare you?” Mason’s voice is a sharp rumble. He steps forward and James instinctively steps back. “How dare you pretend to know how much I care about my family?”
Up close like this, Mason is broad, and tall, and James feels unease creep over him. The need to make himself small, tocower away, is too strong to fight. Like he’s back in the barn on his stepfather’s estate, waiting for a lash.
Mason steps forward again and James stumbles backward, his hands coming up of their own accord. And then his foot hits the corner of the railing and suddenly he’s falling, tumbling down the rough stone steps to land in a heap on the patio below.
Pain blooms across his cheek, at his elbow, flaring out from his hip. He sucks in air, taking a moment to brace himself. He doesn’t think anything is broken, other than his pride.
But before he can gather himself, or figure out a way to rise with a shred of dignity, Mason’s hand is on his shoulder, his other coming up to brush the hair out of James’ eyes.
“I’m so sorry, Demeroven. I never meant to push you onto the stairs,” he says, genuine remorse and deep concern etched across his face.
That hand slips down to cup his cheek and James blinks up at Mason. His head is backlit by the lamps, giving him an almost ethereal glow. It makes James’ chest clench in a way wholly unrelated to his recent fall, and there’s that damn familiar bubbly feeling zipping over his skin—sparks and excitement and hesitation swirled into one. But he’s lying on the ground after a bout of nerves so insistent that he fell down the stairs, all because Mason raised his voice.
The shame of the whole evening closes in on him, and he shuffles out from beneath Mason’s hands, pulling himself to standing without even a grunt, though pain screeches across his skin.
“Don’t touch me,” he gets out, his voice wobbling and low.
Mason rises slowly, hands held up. “All right. I’m sorry.”
James searches for something to say—some way to come back from this. From their fight. From the blackmail. From hisfall. All that rises is a gripping nausea, and he cannot stand for Mason to see him vomit, again, like a weak little boy overcome by emotion.
Instead, he turns on his heel and marches haltingly off across the grounds.
“Demeroven,” Mason calls, but James continues on, refusing to look back.
He holds his head up high until he reaches the side of the ridiculously large townhouse. He turns the corner and limps down the narrow alley until he can collapse against the granite wall, heaving in air. His eyes are leaking, his nose is running, and everything hurts more than it has in a long while. His pride most of all.
How could he let himself get that panicked? Mason isn’t his stepfather. Though, in truth, he doesn’t really know what kind of man Mason is.
The back of his mind taunts him with the feel of Mason’s hand on his shoulder blade in the alley outside D’Vere, the caress of his fingers against James’ cheek just now. With the way Mason has tried to engage him in conversation at every uncomfortable event. With the way Mason smiles and laughs with his cousin and her stepsister, how he clearly loves them so hard and so fiercely. James doesn’t truly think Mason would intentionally have put them in danger, and insinuating as much...
Got him bruised and humiliated.
If he’d simply told Mason about Raverson’s designs on the girls—on the family—after the rugby match... But who’s to say Mason would have listened anyway? All the ifs and maybes of what he could have done are irrelevant now.
Slowly, he hauls himself back to standing, unwilling to stay still long enough for anyone to find him. He limps his way off the property and down the street to where he thinks he’llblend in with the surroundings should anyone be watching from the great house. He hails a passing coach and overpays the driver, sinking into the worn cabin bench with a groan.
How on earth is he supposed to find a way to save his family’s reputation, to protect his cousin, her mother, her stepsister, and Lord Havenfort—the only adult to show him even an ounce of kindness—when he can’t even face Bobby Mason without having an attack of nerves?
Chapter Eleven
Bobby
Bobby cracks his neck, overwarm and slightly sweaty. There on the inner green of the Ascot racetrack, the sun beats down on crowds of merry spectators. It’s a sea of hoopskirts, linens, and top hats. This year they’re pressed up to the whitewashed fence and he feels more claustrophobia than excitement. He squints across the track toward the royal Ascot enclosure and spots Raverson right away. Hard to miss the man—inches taller than most—but still the sight sends a shiver up his spine.
He goes to spin his signet ring and clenches his fist. He hadn’t realized it was gone until Demeroven told him Raverson had it. Now he feels its absence keenly, and whatever attraction Bobby felt for Raverson has been replaced with a pulsing, shameful hatred that has him fidgeting. As much as he wants to pretend Demeroven’s tirade the other night was out of line, Bobby knows he’s to blame. He entangled himself with the wrong man, and now the whole family will pay the price.
Finally, he has a true purpose for the season, and he wants nothing to do with it. How is he supposed to prevent Raverson from revealing his secrets? How is he supposed to protect his cousin and Beth? How is he supposed to stand tall, knowing Raverson’s seen him at his most vulnerable, and has turned that vulnerability into a weapon?
“Miss Wilson wins every game of whist. There’s no wayMrs. Stelm has been, what, holding out for a year?” Beth asks, indignant.
Demeroven sighs beside him and Bobby rolls his shoulders. He loves his cousin and Beth, he really does, but even without his other preoccupations, they’re a bit much today.
“She’s playing the long game,” Gwen returns. “Lulling them into a false sense of security.”
